


when first i met your company

by MissAntlers



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Lots of dancing, M/M, Mairon's terribly pretty, Melkor's doing his best, Nienna's a Good Friend, Party Shenanigans, and for me to pinch some dialogue from that dance scene in Zorro, but they need corporeal forms for d a n c i n g, i'm playing fast and loose with the timeline lads, little Olórin and Curumo are there too, the Ainur celebrate their arrival in Eä
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAntlers/pseuds/MissAntlers
Summary: “Dear heart,” said Nienna, “may I offer you some advice?”Melkor nodded, though his head felt too heavy.“Ask that young Maia for a dance.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this the other day when I got stranded without my tablet. There's another chapter in the works, which I'll hopefully have finished editing in a day or two. I'd kind of like to add more to it in the future because I've gotten attached to them all now? but we shall see.
> 
> Inspired, as usual, by listening to lots and lots of folk music.

_There is a bird in yonder tree_  
_Some say he's blind and cannot see_  
_I wish it was the same with me_  
_When first I met your company_

– I Wish, Kate Rusby

 

 

There were lights over the grass, and many feet were dancing there. At the base of a tall tree sat a band of Maiar, who, with their lutes and pipes, struck a giddy reel that the revellers took up with glee.

Such was the sight that greeted Melkor as he strode into the valley. The place was newly fashioned, and he perceived a certain otherworldliness at its outlines, traces of the Timeless Halls where first it had been conceived. Where the ground levelled out, many of the Ainur sprang and whirled with wild abandon as the music played. Those who did not dance were ringed about the merrymakers, standing and conversing, whilst others sat upon the grass and marvelled at the works of Varda turning gently overhead.

The small grey figure of Lady Nienna stood silently under the boughs of a young tree. Lamplight filtering through the leaves left dappled shadows across her face and that of the white-clad Maia standing beside her. Neither looked up as Melkor approached, although the Maia bowed obediently.

“My lord,” said Nienna, with a dip of her head. “I did not look to see you here.”

Melkor folded his arms across his chest. “The music was inescapable. I came to see what all the fuss was about.”

“It is to celebrate our coming into Eä.” With a shrewd smile she glanced up at him. “And I think it’s no bad thing the merriment is so loud. Anything to drive you out of those dark places where you go wandering.”

“What I do in my own time is my business, lady.”

“Oh indeed,” she replied. “It certainly is that.” Turning again to the celebrations she added, “Have you danced yet?”

“I do not have a partner.”

“Then you should ask someone.”

Melkor frowned. “I did ask the lady Varda, but she was spoken for.”

“Ah.” Nienna smiled again. “Our lord Manwë, I presume. But then they are a fine match––wouldn’t you agree, Olórin?”

The Maia at her side nodded earnestly. He had chosen a form not dissimilar from Manwë’s own, Melkor thought: tall and nimble, with hair like a blanket of snow fallen over his shoulders. But his eyes––those were Nienna’s sad eyes set in his homely, ageless face. Melkor smothered a shudder and looked away.

The tune had changed, and now the dance had become more serpentine, the Ainur weaving amongst one another with slow, graceful movements.

“Who is that?” Melkor asked suddenly.

Nienna looked up, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Someone catch your eye, my lord?”

“Those two spirits there,” he said, ignoring her, “they are unfamiliar to me.”

On the far side of the ring, two Maiar were dancing together. Both were clad in the warm, earthy tones of Aulë’s people, but there the similarities ended. One had steeled his face in such grim concentration, his gaze returning ever to his feet to check that he kept pace and did not err in his footwork; the other danced with his eyes shut and his arms outstretched in heedless joy, and he had ribbons in his hair.

“The dark haired one is Curumo,” said Nienna. “He is friend to young Olórin here.” She cocked her head to the side, squinting slightly in the hazy light. “The fair one I do not know.”

“If you please, my lady,” said Olórin, “that is he whom they call Mairon, most admired of the House of Aulë.”

“Is he indeed?” Nienna glanced at Melkor, and staring down at her pale face the word _wry_ sprung to mind. “You should ask him for a dance, my lord.”

“I will not. I did not come here for company.”

“Then why stand beside me when you could stand alone?” the grey lady replied. Then, holding up a thin hand, she bade him pause. “No. Do not answer that. That was unkind of me. I am glad to be your company, Melkor. I am glad when you are not alone. You belong here, with your own kind, not out in those void places.”

“It is not for you to say where I belong, my lady,” he said, but all the same he took her little hand in his and laid a kiss upon her knuckles. “Will you not dance with me then?”

Nienna smiled again. “I do not dance.”

The song had ended and the Ainur were milling about, exchanging partners or taking their rest, as the musicians attended to their instruments. Fair Mairon stood alone now, twirling one of his ribbons about his fingers, and Melkor almost took a step towards him, but the sudden arrival of Curumo brought him up short. The grim-faced Maia performed a perfunctory bow, before turning to Olórin.

“My friend, are you spoken for?”

Olórin shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing up at Nienna. “I wasn’t going to dance.”

“Oh but you must,” Curumo demanded. “Mairon is insufferable; he will not let me lead.”

Olórin sighed. “If I _must_ …” But he shot the two Valar a pitiful look over his shoulder as Curumo dragged him away.

Nienna laughed.

“You are fond of him,” said Melkor.

“He is my companion,” she replied. “I am not like Varda or Yavanna; I will never marry, but that does not mean I have to be alone. I think the same is true of you, my lord. Even if you are yet to realise it.”

“I fare better alone.”

Nienna shrugged. “I defer to your judgement, of course. You know yourself best.”

Melkor sighed, sweeping a hand through his long hair to keep it out of his face. _I hardly know myself at all,_ he thought. The others––their purpose seemed so clear to them, and they went about their work unfaltering, unquestioning, never looking out and wondering at what lay beyond The World That Is. But how could he toil on this plain when there was so much more out there to be discovered? It was wasteful to let it lie untended. When he thought of this, _then_ his purpose seemed clear: he would raise something out of the nothing, over which he would have governance, and no scrap of it would go to waste. Such grand schemes… But alas, whenever he seemed finally resolved, he would recall his father’s words and the shame that burned his cheeks when he was cast down at the crescendo of the Music. Ilúvatar in his mercy had given him another chance, and he fought tooth and nail against his nature that whispered to him to strike out on his own once again. But for all his fine words, and for all the Void’s allure of freedom, Melkor did not wish to go alone.

When he looked down again he was met with Nienna’s soft grey eyes, and he hung his head.

“Dear heart,” she said, “may I offer you some advice?”

Melkor nodded, though his head felt too heavy.

“Ask that young Maia for a dance.”

She gestured in Mairon’s direction. He looked starkly alone as those around him began to partner up once again.

“I don’t think this sullenness sits well on either of you,” said Nienna. “You might help to lift one another’s spirits.”

He smiled wearily. “I thought that was your job, my lady.”

Nienna hummed. “I may not dance, but this is a time to celebrate, is it not? Consider this my night off.” She nudged his forearm. “Now, away with you.”

Mairon didn’t bow when Melkor approached. He watched the Vala out of the corner of his eye and seemed to pretend not to notice him, fiddling with one of the many rings on his slender fingers.

Melkor waited a moment, but when the Maia showed no sign of acknowledging him, he cleared his throat at a volume just shy of obnoxious.

“Your friend Curumo says you are an insufferable partner.”

Mairon didn’t look at him. Instead he bent down to brush the dirt off his bare feet, and Melkor saw that he wore rings on his toes too.

“He would say that,” the Maia replied at last. “It’s not my fault he has no rhythm. I shouldn’t have to let him stamp on me with his ungainly feet just to make him feel better about himself.”

“I could do better.”

Mairon was still looking at his feet, his pretty face dour beneath a curtain of pale hair. “You need not feel obligated, my lord.”

“Obligated?” Melkor huffed a laugh. “Little spirit, there are few things in this world that I am _obliged_ to do. I ask you to dance because it is my wish.”

Mairon peered up at him then and Melkor was taken aback; he had never seen such eyes, as gold and bright as though they were alive with the Secret Fire itself.

“Come,” said Melkor, suddenly quite determined, “will you not be my partner? You go to waste standing here alone, and that I simply cannot abide.”

“Perhaps,” Mairon ventured. He paused, looking Melkor up and down as he fiddled with his rings again. “If you would let me lead.”

Melkor snorted. “Absolutely not. You are but a Maia; don’t you know who I am?”

“Oh I know who you are, my lord,” Mairon replied, and his voice seemed quieter in that moment, softer, as if it were meant for only the two of them. Then he stuck his chin in the air and pouted. “My condition remains the same, though––lord or no.”

“It is out of the question.”

Mairon raised his eyebrows. “Very well then. You’ll have to find yourself another partner.” This time he did bow, though it was a fleeting gesture, cut in half as he made to leave.

Melkor made a face; this was Varda all over again. He supposed he could order him to dance with him, but somehow that didn’t feel right. Not this time, not with this creature, who wore silk in his hair and gold on his bones.

“One dance then,” he said, and Mairon hesitated. “I will allow it for one dance.”

“You’ll _allow_ it?”

When he grinned Melkor caught the wicked glint of his teeth in the twilight. The air between them seemed to have changed consistency, and it made Melkor’s fingers itch, wanting suddenly, fiercely to know if the Maia was truly as warm as the beads of sweat in the hollow of his throat suggested. If Mairon noticed him staring, he didn’t mention it––just carried on grinning and said:

“You’ll have to keep up with me first.”

They took their positions in a longways set, facing across from one another beside three other pairs. The musicians were coaxing their instruments back to life when Mairon shook his head.

“This won’t do at all.”

 _Oh no you don’t_ , Melkor thought. He’d promised him a dance so a dance he would get.

But instead Mairon said: “Your hair’s going to get in your eyes––here.” He unwound one of the ribbons from his own hair and held it out rigidly, adding a muted “my lord” when Melkor accepted it. Melkor himself said nothing, but gathered up his thick dark hair and tied it back, letting his fingers linger over the scrap of silk, still faintly warm from Mairon’s grasp. The music sprang to life not a moment later.

The lord Oromë and his lady Vána were at the top of the set, and they began the dance. With their arms around one another’s waists, they spun each other merrily, until Vána broke away and skipped down the set, swinging with each of the leads as she went. When she ran out of partners, Oromë took her into his arms again, before he swung back up the line, and met his lady back where they’d begun. The others clapped a lively rhythm in time to the music, and the grass itself seemed to sing to the tune of satin slippers and felt boots and bare feet. Vána and Oromë whirled one another again, and then skipped back down to the bottom of the set, spinning with each of the other dancers and laughing as they went. So the steps went, and were repeated by the next pair––two Maiar whom Melkor did not recognise––and then by Curumo and the hapless Olórin, who shot Melkor pleading glances every opportunity he got.

“I hear you should watch out for his feet,” the Vala said, when it was his turn to spin him.

Olórin groaned. “It’s his fingernails I’m having trouble with. They’re ever so sharp.”

They danced on, until Melkor found himself at the top of the set, meeting the challenge of Mairon’s fiery stare. Melkor couldn’t be called ungainly, not by any measure; prowess and certainty were usually writ large in his every gesture. But next to Mairon he felt positively lumbering, for the young Maia danced like a sycamore seed in the wind, ribbons streaming behind him as he twirled. It was all Melkor could do to keep up with him. He had that same magic around his edges, the same that was visible at the seams of Eä; he was outlined in gold, Melkor thought. Centuries later, he would see him still, whenever he shut his eyes: a silhouette as fierce and bright as a stray spark from one of Mairon’s own forges.

The young Maia spun ever faster, gripping him hard by the waist as they whirled down the line, whilst leaving barely the ghost of a touch on the other dancers. He was a good foot shorter than Melkor, but as they came together at the crescendo of the tune, he stood up on the balls of his feet and met his eyes so proudly, flinging his arms around Melkor’s neck and closing the distance between them until they were flush against one another with their foreheads touching. The music finished, and Melkor found himself with his hands buried in Mairon’s hair, and the Maia’s knee between his thighs as he held him up against him.

“Mairon!”

At the sound of his name being bellowed through the crowd, Mairon went rigid. His eyes widened as he glanced over Melkor’s shoulder, and a flush began to creep up his neck. He pushed away from him at once.

“Wait.” Melkor’s hand shot out to catch him, but too late––he was already bounding away across the grass, a flame hastily guttering out.

“Mairon!”

The lord Aulë was shouldering his way through the throng, but by the time he reached Melkor, Mairon had hastily gathered up his boots, left by the edge of the ring, and disappeared into the gloom beyond. Melkor simply stood there with his arms by his side, feeling suddenly deflated, until Aulë put a large hand on his shoulder.

“You must forgive my Maia,” said the Lord of the Earth, frowning at the spot that Mairon had occupied mere moments ago. “He forgets his place. He is impulsive, he is…” He sighed.

Melkor straightened up. “A very spirited dancer.”

Aulë huffed. “Thank you for putting it so courteously. I hope you were not offended.”

Melkor shook his head absently, brushing past him as he padded to the threshold of the party. He stared out into the gathering shadows, seeing little beyond the vague shapes of trees and rocks that just managed to catch the dregs of the Ainur’s light.

The Maia was long gone.

Melkor’s hands closed lightly around the memory of Mairon’s soft hair, and he shuddered, squeezing them into fists until his nails bit the meat of his palm. This would not do at all. Frowning, he reached up to sweep his own hair from his face, just to give his hands something to do. But as his fingers brushed his hair he felt something come away, and when looked he saw Mairon’s ribbon crumpled against his knuckles. It was nothing remarkable––a pale scrap of silk, now gently bloodied from where his nails had broken the skin. And yet Melkor, a dark shape lingering on the edge of a frieze of light and gaiety, drew up the ribbon and tied it behind his ear where no one would see it. Then he strode into the shadows, humming softly the tune to which he had danced with a most promising partner indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

A chill wind blew over the plains of Almaran, catching up leaves and seeds and stray feathers, and carrying them with it until it reached the great lake, from whence it was destined to carry on alone. A solitary figure stood on the cliff tops, watching the waves pawing at the rocks below. The breeze lifted his hair and rearranged it in a tangle over his shoulders. He rubbed his forearms to settle the gooseflesh that was prickling there, and although it did little to warm him, it felt better than doing nothing.

“Mairon?”

He started at the sound of his name, but it was only Curumo coming over the grass towards him. He hugged his torso tighter as he turned into the wind.

“What are you doing out here?” Curumo asked, coming to stand beside him. The dour-faced Maia peered over the precipice at the foam shattering on the shoreline, and he shuddered. “We’re all going to Evensong, will you not come with us?”

“Forgive me if I’m not in a very worshipful mood.”

Curumo tilted his head to the side. “You’re not still upset about what Lord Aulë said are you?”

Mairon tried to hide his scowl in his hair. Curumo placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it what he must have thought was a reassuring squeeze. “Our lord is of the Valar; he knows more of the Allfather’s plan than we can ever hope to comprehend. If he tells you that your designs are unneeded then surely you must take him at his word.”

Mairon sighed, turning now to the dim, grey horizon. Before him stretched the lake, so vast it could be a sea of its own: the domain of the lord Ulmo and his folk. Behind him were mountains, new shapes crafted by his lord, and they rose up seemingly without end until they melted into the haze of the sky, province of Queen Varda. And everywhere, everywhere the wind blew, into every nook and crevice of Eä: the cold breath of King Manwë. He was surrounded by the creations of others, and yet he was not permitted his own.

He kicked at the loose soil under his feet. “Get you gone; our lord will be expecting you.”

“You’re not coming?” Curumo made to touch him again, but Mairon thrust out his arm and batted him away.

“Must I tell you twice? Leave me be.”

Curumo squared his shoulders and stuck out his chin, but he said no more, and retreated back across the plain. Mairon’s own frame went slack, and he let out a long sigh. Slowly, he edged his way forward until the toes of his boots were jutting out over the precipice. He shut his eyes and listened to the roar of the water; there was no hesitation in the relentlessness of the waves, and he wondered vaguely, if he fell, if they would smash his little body to pieces without a second thought. He decided then that when––or indeed _if_ ––he ever passed beyond this strange existence, that was how he wanted to die: loudly.

But another sound came to him on the air, and cut into the swell of the great lake. In some distant valley, far from where he stood, the chorus of worship had begun. A great multitude of voices, divine and so certain, rose up in praise of Eru Ilúvatar and the creation of Eä. And how strange they seemed to Mairon now, how the harmonies itched at him under his skin, where once they had been a balm. _Yes, praise Him,_ he thought, _and forget that_ you _were the ones who crafted this land, with gifts that you once sang for yourselves_. The Ainur gave themselves no commendation for their hard work, and thanked Ilúvatar for imperfections that He allowed to be. Those heavy clouds lingering on the horizon, for example; soon they would spout forth white fire that ripped the sky in jagged forks, sounding a great cacophony as they did so. King Manwë disdained it––everyone knew so––and yet it had come into being from the discord in the Music, and the Allfather simply let it happen. Why allow things that caused discontent? And why should anyone thank you for doing so? Mairon could not understand it.

As if on cue, the shale beneath one of his feet crumbled, and his heart scrambled into his throat. He leapt away, not staying to watch the rock swallowed up by the deep, and collapsed into the grass, kneading his eyes with the heels of his hands. Letting his head fall back against the dry earth beneath him, he closed his eyes again, and tried to block out the chorus of Evensong. He might have lain like that for countless whiles, unmoved by the music of his folk, undisturbed by the way of all things––but as Mairon would soon come to learn, that was rarely to be his fate.

“Well, well. What do you do here?”

Strange, Mairon thought; this interruption had an oddly familiar voice. He opened one eye lazily, and then sat up at once.

“My lord.” He kept his gaze fixed firmly on his knees.

Melkor laughed, a sound not unlike the thunder from the great black clouds. “I did not mean to disturb you, little spirit. But I spied you sitting down here alone, and since everyone else appears to be at their incessant singing, I thought––”

“Wait”––Mairon shook his head––“ _down here?_ Where did you come from?” The land about was almost entirely flat for many leagues inland. Mairon was sure he would have noted his approach; the Vala’s was not a presence one forgot easily.

Melkor smiled. “May I?” He gestured to the spot beside Mairon, although he did not wait for an answer before sitting down beside him. “I was aloft.”

The Maia squinted at the sky. “Up there?”

“I walk there sometimes, beyond the borders of this world, in the realms of ceaseless night.” He leaned back on his hands, grinning at Mairon. “You would not believe the vastness of it. The World That Is falls away into shadow beneath your very feet, and you can walk forever in the endlessness of it all.”

Mairon shrugged. “It sounds lonely.”

“Ha. Not half as lonely as you looked just now.” Melkor drew his legs up and rested his arms on his knees. “Tell me, what are you doing out here all by yourself, little spirit? If you sing half as well as you dance then the rest of them are truly bereft of your presence this evening.”

He had the audacity then to wink, and Mairon had to arrange his hair so as to conceal the flush he knew was stealing across his face. There was something about Melkor––he was the sort of person who seemed as though he had his feet up on the table, even when there was no table in sight. It only served to further his irritation, and he was fairly certain that if Melkor called him ‘little spirit’ one more time, Mairon would fling him over the edge of the cliff, Vala or not.

“I was no longer required in my lord Aulë’s forges,” he said, as levelly as he could manage. “He thought my time today might be better spent contemplating the glory of Ilúvatar.”

“Indeed?” Melkor leaned closer, lowering his voice as he said: “One might find attending Evensong a good place to start.”

Mairon huffed and looked away, trying to retreat further into his thick curls as he heard Melkor chuckle.

“But really,” the Vala continued, sinking down in the grass to rest his weight on his elbows. “What do you think of this place, of my father’s creation?”

Mairon bit his lip. This felt like precarious footing; Melkor’s reputation preceded him, of course, but he was still of the Aratar, and brother to the king. It would not do for Mairon to voice his concerns too readily, he thought, and so instead he simply, quietly said: “It’s cold.”

“You don’t like the cold?”

Mairon fingered one of his thick golden rings. “I run hotter than most. I never noticed it before…before we came here. But now––I don’t know. I feel the air like a knife.” He frowned. “Perhaps you could mention it to your brother.”

Melkor cocked his head to the side. “But without the cold you would likely not feel the heat so keenly or so fondly. This land of my father’s, it is made up of balance. The heat and the cold are merely one such instance––but,” he said with a smile, “they are my domain, little spirit, not my brother’s.”

“Oh.” Mairon lowered his head. “I didn’t mean––”

Melkor waved him away idly. “Do not dwell on it. Answer me this instead, for I am curious indeed: why did Lord Aulë send you away? I have heard you are most admired among his folk.”

Mairon groaned before he could stop himself, and then clapped a hand to his mouth. Melkor laughed.

“You may speak plainly with me. I bear the Lord of the Earth no especial fondness.”

Mairon leaned away from him. He had never heard anyone speak like that.

“Oh come now,” said Melkor, “don’t look so surprised. You were there when my father cast me down––everyone was. I am unlike the rest of my kindred; you all know it. I see little reason for me to feign love towards those who think ill of me.”

Mairon considered this, nodding without really registering the motion. It was a strange way of talking, certainly, but he could not deny that he appreciated one of the Valar being quite so candid. It was certainly a refreshing contrast from Lord Aulë, who steeped their every conversation in praise for the Allfather.

“I have ideas sometimes,” he said quietly, as though confessing some deep and awful part of himself. “Designs that the Children of Ilúvatar might use, when they should at last awaken. But my lord calls them blasphemous, says it is my place only to form the things he deems worthy of creation.” Mairon shook his head. “I cannot raise mountains like he can, nor can I command the swell of the tide or the currents of the air––but does that therefore make my creations less worthy?”

Melkor steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “And what, pray, are these _designs_ of yours, as you call them? Your rings are very pretty, little spirit, but they are hardly worthy of Aulë’s wrath.”

“Stop calling me that.” Mairon’s head snapped up. “I speak of steel and cold iron. Lady Yavanna makes trees for the Children, under which they shall take shelter, she says, but what happens with the air grows too cold and they must build a fire? She brings my lord dead and useless wood to fuel his forges, but will she do so for the Children? I think not. No, they will need blades with which to hew the trees, or they will surely freeze to death. Why am I not permitted to make such things for them? I wish only to provide for those who are destined to be in our care. Is that not your father’s only true command?” Mairon realised then that his hands had formed fists in the fabric of his tunic, crumpling the soft material into vicious troughs and peaks, a little mountain range all of his own. He let out a long, weary breath. “But then… Then I cannot help but wonder: surely the Allfather would have made allowance for such things. Surely he knows what will be, and would not send his children out into the world simply to perish. So who am I to question his Plan?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It makes me feel rotten on the inside, my lord––like if you pressed too hard I would cave inwards, all putrescence and mulch.”

Melkor, who had been listening in silence with an eerily rapt expression, suddenly leaned forward and grasped Mairon’s hands, squeezing them tightly until the Maia thought he might cry out.

“You see that?” said Melkor. “You’re not rotten.” A deep furrow appeared in his brow and his voice grew loud and seemed to echo off the young rocks of the cliffs. “You are strong and wise, wiser than your elders give you credit for.”

His hold on Mairon’s hands was warm and sure, and Mairon let himself slacken into it.

“I think you have learned all you can from Lord Aulë,” the Vala said. And he let go, reaching instead into the very earth upon which they sat, and spreading it apart with his own long fingers. Instead of the rich, dark soil of Yavanna’s making, Mairon saw fire––a peculiar, thick fire that flowed like water, only slower, somehow more elegantly. He could feel the heat of it gentle against his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. Something flared in his chest, tugging at him to move nearer, to run his hands through it, for it looked as soft as the silk he wore in his hair, although he knew it would scorch him, and oh, how he wanted that too. When at last he tore himself away and sat back upon the grass, he saw again the strange fire reflected in the black of Melkor’s eyes.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice reverent and hushed.

“It is called lava,” the great lord replied, “and I shall teach you how to make it, if you so wish.”

 _I do! I do!_ he almost cried, but his hands in the cool grass grounded him, and the warmth of that fire guttered out at once. When he looked again, he saw only his own reflection, dark and distorted, in Melkor’s stare. He felt as though someone had poured ice water down his back, and he shook his head, scolding himself for having been so foolish.

“I thank you, my lord,” he said prudently, lifting his chin, “but I cannot accept your offer.”

“Oh?” Melkor drew back. “And why is that?”

“Because I know what it is you’re trying to do, and I feel obliged to tell you, my lord, that it will not work on me.”

A thin smile, that somehow seemed to know too much, pulled at Melkor’s lips. “And what, pray tell, am I trying to do?”

“I told you before, my lord, the night we met, that I knew exactly who you were, and today you yourself have made no secret of your past.” Mairon sighed. “I know who you are and I know what you do. You single out Maiar in whom you perceive some sort of weakness, and you prey on their anxieties. I cannot claim to know what you are planning, my lord, and perhaps the others do not see it, but I have keener eyes. You are… _collecting_ them, and I’ll not be part of any collection, if you please.”

Melkor rested his chin in one hand and grinned lazily. “I think that I am grown very fond of you, little…Mairon. If I were indeed building a collection, you would undoubtedly be the crowning addition.”

The Maia scowled and fiddled with his hair again. “Stop saying things like that.”

Melkor laughed softly. “Why? Afraid I’ll win you over?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then why not let me keep saying them.”

Mairon looked up at the sky, and it seemed closer now, a weight in which he was being flattened, until he and Melkor might be merged into one. The wind billowed his shirtsleeves and nipped at his cheeks, and a shiver caught hold of his spine and shook him none too gently.

“It’s too cold out here,” he said. “I think I will go back inside.”

He got to his feet, rubbing his arms again to stave off the chill. Melkor arose too, towering over him, his bones cracking like great sheets of grinding ice as he stretched himself out.

“You may reject my tutelage,” the Vala said with a shrug, “but I shall see what I can do about the cold for you.”

Mairon crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “I already told you: whatever it is you’re offering, I’m not interested.” But he didn’t sound half as certain as he’d meant to. He tried again: “You had better not follow me.” He turned to head back towards the forges, but in the last instance he felt a hand close around his wrist and he started.

“I almost forgot,” said Melkor, staring at him so intensely that for a moment Mairon thought he was going to try and kiss him. He wasn’t sure what alarmed him more––the idea of it, or the fact that he didn’t make any effort to free himself of the Vala’s grasp.

“What?” He wanted to be angry but his mouth was so dry his voice came out in a cracked whisper. “What did you forget?”

Melkor let go of him and reached up behind his ear, drawing forth something that he pressed into Mairon’s hand. “I’ll see you again,” he said, grinning that indolent, lopsided grin again.

“I wouldn’t count on it!” Mairon called after his retreating figure, but Melkor, with his back to him still, simply raised one arm in the air and waved. Mairon rolled his eyes, but unfurling his hand he saw the ribbon that he had leant to him that night at the dance. It seemed an age ago now, and who was to say how long it had truly been, for time passed so dubiously here with nothing to measure it. Melkor hadn’t seemed quite so sure of himself that night; he seemed resolved now, although on what matter, Mairon dared not think. But…he had kept the ribbon.

After their dance––after the crowd of skin on skin, of panting breath on his face, of the sting in his lungs as they ached to keep him going in time to the music, of the hammer of another heartbeat in a firm chest under his hand––he had fled into the forest. He had scrambled over roots and ducked under boughs and run and run until he was certain that Aulë was not following. Then he had sat himself down at the foot of a tree, letting the cool loam beneath soothe his dance-worn feet, hugging himself tightly. And he had smiled. It was a private smile that no one save the trees took note of, but it spilled out across his face and he seemed unable to stop it.

Standing now on the cliff tops with the wind in his hair and all Melkor’s fine words embedded in the landscape as much as they were in his mind, he tied the ribbon around one of his rings, and allowed himself a smile once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me over at flurgburgler.tumblr.com for more Tolkien junk

**Author's Note:**

> That dance is actually based on a Scottish folk dance called 'Stripping the Willow', which is terribly good fun, although not necessarily saucy.
> 
> Catch me over on flurgburgler.tumblr.com for art and more Tolkien shenanigans


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